An Unexpected Gift
by Joodiff
Summary: It's their first Christmas together as... whatever they are now. Post-"Straw Dog". Happy Christmas/Festive Season 2019 - enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

_Happy Christmas/Festive Season 2019! xx_

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**An Unexpected Gift**

by Joodiff

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_Clackety-clack, clackety-clack._ The rhythmic sound is familiar and reassuring, conjuring happy memories from as far back as Grace's childhood. Maybe the trains are faster and sleeker nowadays, but the noise they make travelling on their steel rails is more-or-less the same. It's soporific, too, and since much of the angry stress of earlier has drained away she's sliding in and out of a light doze as the train finally crosses the artificial border of the M25 and starts the last leg of its journey. Pulling herself together and sitting up straighter in her seat, she stares out of the window, her thoughts idly ticking over as she surveys the lights of what she assumes is Watford. There are bright, twinkling Christmas lights scattered amongst the more mundane domestic illumination of hundreds, if not thousands of windows. It lends a seasonal cheeriness to the view that's tempered by the wistful knowledge that the long, unexpected delay near Coventry has deprived her of what has become one of her favourite Christmas traditions. Not the general inter-departmental melee at the Black Prince on Barrett Road, just a short walk from the office, but the much smaller, friendlier final celebration traditionally held in the squad room just before Boyd dismisses everyone for the holiday season.

The grumpy middle-aged couple seated opposite her are arguing again, she realises. Not loudly, but with a weary, acidic vehemence that suggests if their relationship isn't already on the rocks, it very soon will be. Over the course of the interrupted journey, Grace has accidentally gleaned from their sporadic bursts of conversation that they live in Crewe, owe a substantial amount of money, hate their young, noisy neighbours, and are currently on their way to spend Christmas with their daughter, her roundly disliked husband and their two apparently rude and semi-feral children. Despite the long stationary wait close to Coventry, they haven't really attempted to speak to Grace, nor she to them, but she's almost beginning to view them as old friends. Though perhaps old _acquaintances_ would be a much better term.

Watching their reflections in the window as they quarrel, she wonders what keeps them together. What's preventing the final fracture and parting of the ways. Why they don't just –

Beside her, in the depths of her large shoulder bag, her phone starts to ring, ending her speculative chain of thought. Fumbling through the miscellany of contents, she locates it, glances at the caller identification, and answers with a simple, "Boyd."

"Hello, you," is the languid reply. The mellow tone and cadence tell her everything she needs to know.

"Ah ha," she says, entertained despite herself. "You gave up on the cheap vino and cracked open the Scotch, then?"

"I'm not drunk." A brief pause, and then the amendment, "Not quite, anyway."

"Just pleasantly well-oiled?" Grace suggests. Festive squad room parties. They always end more-or-less the same way. She adds a stern, "Please tell me you're not thinking of driving home?"

"Obviously not," Boyd retorts, sounding faintly scandalised. "I'm safely tucked up in a cab, just going over Vauxhall Bridge. What about you?"

She chooses to misunderstand the question. "Sadly, I am neither drunk nor pleasantly well-oiled."

Her reward is a deep, pained sigh that is closely followed by, "You know what I mean."

Staring at the dozens of illuminated windows her train is rattling past, she says, "Somewhere between Watford and Harrow. Should be at Euston in about fifteen minutes or so, I hope."

"Want me to tell the driver to turn round?"

"No point," she says. Before he can offer any gallant protestations, she continues, "How was the party?"

"Twelve of us sharing three bottles of cheap Lambrusco and some questionable mince pies is _not_ a party, Grace." Boyd sounds reproachful. "Though things did start to look up when Stella went upstairs and pinched some mistletoe from CID."

It's not easy to hide her amusement enough to sound suitably glacial, but Grace does her best. "Oh, yes?"

"Mm."

He wants her to inquire more closely, she knows he does. She's not going to. Just to be perverse. "Fair enough. I'm glad you were all having such a good time while I was stuck in the middle of nowhere. Points failure, apparently."

"Well," he drawls, "if you will rush off to Manchester two days before Christmas…"

Defensive, she grinds out, "I told you – "

"You wanted to see Morticia, or whatever her damned name is, before she flew back to the States. Yes, I know."

"_Andrea_," Grace corrects with admirable patience. Though in truth, Boyd's version is a good fit for the tall, slim, dark-haired woman whose renowned specialism in the psychology of ritual murder has given her a more than slightly sinister reputation on both sides of the Atlantic. Glancing at her watch, she changes the subject with, "If I get a cab from Euston to your place now, it's going to be pushing midnight before I get there."

"So?" He sounds unperturbed.

It's been an exceedingly long day, one way and another, and the idea of extending it further has very little appeal. "I just meant… Well, wouldn't it be easier if I just went straight home tonight, and came over tomorrow morning?"

"Don't you want to wake up next to me on Christmas Eve?" he inquires, and to her surprise he sounds genuinely mournful. Hurt, even. It's a timely reminder that despite all the time they've known each other they are still very much carefully feeling their way in this latest, more intimate phase of their long relationship.

"Of course I do," she says, both to reassure him and because it's true. Nevertheless, she has no qualms about continuing, "But I really am exhausted, Boyd. Would you mind if I…?"

"No," he says, and though his dutiful reply is quiet and reasonable she immediately knows he's lying. Knows he minds very much indeed. Far more than she might have anticipated. "No, of course not. Go home and get your head down, then. Call me tomorrow."

"I will," she promises. "Don't stay up too late, hm?"

The call ends with restrained pleasantries, the kind suitable for people of their age who are very aware of the presence of potential eavesdroppers. As she returns her phone to her bag, Grace notes that the couple opposite are now sitting in stony silence, coldly ignoring each other. She doesn't know them, doesn't know their stories, but it still saddens her. No-one should be unhappy at Christmas. The thought returns her mind to her own situation, to the man who became a colleague, then a friend and colleague, and then… whatever he is now. Partner? Not a word she likes, but there doesn't seem to be a better alternative.

Their first Christmas together as… whatever they now are. People who never expected to end up together, but somehow eventually did. People involved in something she can't quite bring herself to call a love-affair. Though that's what she supposes it is. A very mature, low-key sort of thing, played out in private and conducted by very particular rules.

Peter Boyd. Divorced, dysfunctional father of a missing son. Loyal but erratic friend, hard-working and highly-decorated police officer. Quick-tempered hellion and occasional tyrant. Recently-acquired lover.

_We fight, too_, she thinks, covertly studying the unsmiling, silent couple that have been her involuntary companions for hours. _We fight, but not like you do._

He's bullish, occasionally boorish, and often bad-tempered, not qualities Grace finds attractive, but there's limitless kindness and compassion in him, too, and an iron-hearted belief that everyone, good or bad, deserves whatever flavour of justice is appropriate to them. Something about him meshes incredibly well with something about her. That's the simplest explanation she's been able to provide for herself for everything that's happened since… Well, since Kevin Keogh. Since she finally started to come to terms with at least some of things that have gnawed at her for years and consciously gave the ripped-open old wounds a chance to begin to heal properly.

Shaking off the darkening chain of thought, Grace becomes aware that the familiar tempo of the moving train has changed. It's slowing as it approaches its destination, and its weary passengers are beginning to react, gathering their possessions as they prepare to disembark, hours later than expected. Probably it won't be as easy to find a cab to take her from Euston north to Tufnell Park as it should be at such a late hour, but she'll manage somehow.

-oOo-

Probert Road is in Greenwich, not Tufnell Park, and once Grace has paid the predictably loquacious taxi driver and watched him drive away, she checks her watch and discovers that her earlier estimate wasn't far wrong – it's just a few minutes before midnight. The unostentatiously affluent residential street is still and quiet, with only a handful of its plethora of gracious period properties showing any lights. The one in front of her, a Georgian-style three-storey end-of-terrace townhouse that's actually mid-Victorian, is situated a little back from the road behind a high brick wall, only its attached garage – a much later addition – really visible from where she's standing. She can see, however, that there's a light on upstairs in what she knows is the master bedroom. Boyd is still awake, then. Hopefully.

Making her way through the shadows beyond the boundary wall to the stone steps that rise to the front door, she wonders if or when she will be granted keys to this particular castle. Thus far there has been no real need or opportunity, but sooner or later… After all, Boyd may not yet have keys to _her_ house, but he knows – and thoroughly disapproves of – where she hides the spare key, and has shown no hesitation in using it on occasion.

Tonight, Grace thinks, reaching out to ring the doorbell, might be the turning point. The moment when it occurs to him that it might be more convenient for them both for her to simply unlock the damn door herself when she needs to. Waiting not altogether patiently for some sign of life from within, she rings the bell for a second time. It's December, after all, and the night has turned bitter. There will be frost on the ground in the morning, she's sure of it. Behind the front door, the hall light blinks into life. Doesn't stop her from making a third determined assault on the bell.

"All right, all right," a loud and displeased, if muffled voice roars from within. "Fuck's sake, give me a chance…"

The door jerks open, and a faintly dishevelled and irascible-looking Boyd looks out at her. His stormy expression shifts, becomes a little more benign and considerably more puzzled. "Grace."

"Changed my mind," she announces. "Woman's prerogative."

"Apparently so," he says, still sounding baffled. A long dressing-gown that has seen far better days hangs open over an equally elderly tee-shirt and a pair of loose dark sweatpants that she knows damned well he doesn't wear in bed. Presumably even he draws the line at opening his front door in the middle of a cold winter night wearing not much more than what God gave him.

"Well?" she asks, as he makes no attempt to move. "It's freezing out here."

Boyd steps back without a word, allowing her to enter the house. Even with the front door wide open, the temperature is considerably more tolerable beyond the threshold. As he closes the door and begins the complicated locking ritual, Grace dumps her bag on the narrow hall table and divests herself of her coat. Hanging it on the newel post at the foot of the stairs, she says, "I had to fight tooth and nail for a cab at the station, you know."

"Literally?" he inquires, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Almost. It's amazing how entitled some people feel just because they're carrying a briefcase."

"My money's on the lady with the ridiculously large bag," he says, pushing home the final bolt and turning to look at her properly. "Christ, you look done in."

"I feel it, rather," Grace admits. "It's been a very long day."

Instead of the gentle mockery she expects, he offers, "Drink? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?"

She shakes her head. "Too tired. All I really want to do is lie down and sleep for at least twelve hours."

"Come here," he says, though it's him who moves. Being gathered into a warm, solid embrace is a little unexpected but very, very welcome. Something she hadn't realised she'd missed until it became a regular part of her life again. He's naturally tactile, Grace noticed that very early in their long, ever-evolving relationship, and away from work, in the private space between them that they have recently established, his self-imposed boundaries disappear quickly and easily and he isn't afraid to show her the physical affection he seems to find it far more difficult to voice.

Comforting and comfortable. Head tucked into his shoulder she allows herself the luxury of a long, tired sigh. "Bloody points failure. Can you believe that? Just when everyone's trying to travel for Christmas."

"Sod's Law," Boyd says, the words a deep vibration beneath her ear. "Have you eaten?"

"A stale sandwich and a bar of chocolate. Good thing Andrea and I decided to have lunch at a proper restaurant instead of just grabbing a snack from the university cafeteria, that's all I can say."

"I could make you something…?"

At home, he's rather more domesticated than anyone would tend to believe, too. Still pressed against him, Grace shakes her head. "It's sweet of you, but no… really, all I need is to sleep."

"Come on, then," he says, detaching himself and leaning past her to flick the light switch off. "I'd offer to carry you up the stairs, but I'm still half-cut, so…"

"Should've stuck to the Lambrusco," she teases.

His answering snort is derisive. "Says the woman who never buys a bottle of wine that costs less than a tenner."

"And usually considerably more," she allows, starting up the stairs. "Everyone should have at least one vice."

"Amen to that," he says behind her. Five stairs up, he says, "Spencer tried his luck with Felix under the mistletoe."

It's enough to make Grace falter for a moment. She looks back at him, wide-eyed. "Good Lord. How did that go?"

"About as well as you'd expect. I'm not a doctor, but I'd say he's going to spend Christmas suffering from a severe case of frostbite."

Chuckling, she continues the ascent. "He didn't fancy his chances with Stella, then?"

"Oh, he did," a brief, too-deliberate pause, "but she had ideas in another direction entirely."

She's perfectly able to read between the lines. Glancing back at him again, she says, "Oh?"

Boyd looks a little sheepish as he admits, "Turns out she has a bit of a thing for older men."

"Bad lad," she scolds, but she's far more amused than irked.

"What?" he demands, suddenly all injured innocence. "I never said I – "

Grace laughs, cutting off his protestations. "I'm _sure_ you did everything you could to fight her off."

"Wait," he says, heavy suspicion replacing the strident note of innocence in his tone, "I'm trying my level best to keep everything honest and above board here, and all you can do is take the – "

"Boyd," she interrupts, "it's the same every Christmas. They egg each other on, and eventually someone takes a crack at snogging the boss. Or had you forgotten the year that Mel…" She stops, struck by a sharp pang that she forces herself to dismiss. "Well, anyway. Of _course_ she tried it on. Spence probably put her up to it."

"That's right, Grace, burst my bubble."

Reaching the top of the stairs ahead of him she has enough of a height advantage to pat him on the top of the head. "You may be pretty, lover, but you're at least twenty years too old for her."

He looks disgruntled. "And again with the bubble-bursting. Though, thank you. I think."

Preparing to turn right towards the house's main bathroom, Grace gives him a bright smile and says, "Go and warm the bed up for me, there's a good boy."

Boyd gives her an appraising look that suggests he's considering several different retorts and their possible outcomes, but instead of offering a pithy rejoinder, he eventually shrugs, steps up onto the landing and heads left towards the big bedroom at the front of the house. Considering it a minor victory, Grace retreats to the bathroom where her toiletries have started to proliferate amongst his. Even something as trivial as seeing her toothbrush standing next to his in the glass on the shelf above the sink is both welcoming and reassuring. This is his house, most definitely, but time and intimacy have given her a status well above that of an ordinary house guest.

Christmas, she thinks as she goes about her usual bedtime routine. A traditional time for friends and families. They are both – and neither. It's certain that they will quarrel at some point during the festive season, two strong, independent personalities clashing in a small, confined space, but she doesn't fear it. Their arguments follow a predictable pattern, and almost always end with one or other of them proffering a grudging olive branch couched in complicated if unspoken terms and conditions. Boyd might very will be fiery, given to rearing up at the slightest provocation, but Grace has no illusions that she's any easier to live with than he is. His temper is short-fused and explosive, but he doesn't hold grudges the way she's inclined to, and he is not as spiteful as she regrettably knows she can be when pushed too far. They will muddle through somehow.

Finishing her ablutions, she exits the bathroom and heads for the master bedroom. It couldn't be any different in character to her own room. Impeccably tidy, save for a few scattered books and possessions, and drawn in stark, sleek modern lines, it has an unassuming masculinity about it that never fails to remind her that Boyd has lived alone for many years. Yet, somehow it doesn't feel alien or unwelcoming. Just… different.

Sprawled out under the covers, door-answering clothing clearly discarded, he's watching her from the big, low bed as she closes the door quietly behind her. One bedside lamp provides the room's only illumination, and the diffuse light from its solitary bulb casts him in striking shadows that accentuate his strong features, his distinctive aquiline nose. The pale blue nightdress that's an awkward, not quite successful compromise between comfortable and seductive is lying on the bed waiting for her. A simple, thoughtful gesture that Grace desperately appreciates in her current state of semi-numb weariness.

Mechanically getting undressed under his silent, contemplative scrutiny still feels uncomfortable. No matter that there's no part of her body he hasn't thoroughly and rapaciously explored. It's just one of those things, she supposes. Age, and the acute awareness of the growing imperfections it brings with it, is a bitch. At least the room isn't brightly lit. Starting to remove her jewellery, she says, "This time tomorrow it will be Christmas."

His eyes – seeming even darker in the soft light – flick towards the clock, and he nods. One hand behind his head, the other somewhere out of sight, he looks so completely relaxed that she's forced to hide a smile. Easier than explaining exactly why she finds the phenomenon amusing. Putting her necklace with her earrings on the uncluttered top of the chest of drawers next to the bedroom door, she adds, "It's such a shame I missed the party."

Boyd doesn't move as he says, "If it's any consolation, it wasn't exactly a riotous affair."

"Even with Stella's mistletoe?" Her question is intentionally arch.

"Even," he echoes, holding her gaze with stolid imperturbability, "with Stella's mistletoe."

He rolls onto his side as Grace begins to undress, his back momentarily towards her. She wonders if it's deliberate. Difficult to tell. His sensitivity – or lack of it – depends, as so much else does, on his mood. Slipping into the cool silkiness of the nightdress she notes the movement of his bare shoulders and inquires, "What on earth are you doing?"

Rolling back, Boyd holds up a loosely closed fist. "I have something for you."

"Early Christmas present?" she guesses, edging her way under the covers. To her surprise the side of the bed she has claimed as her own is warm. He must have moved from it only moments before she walked into the room. The soft mattress gives easily under her weight, gently conforming itself to the shape of her body. Incredibly comfortable. Probably cost him a small fortune, but so, so worth every penny of it.

"Something like that," he agrees, but there's a subtle hint of devilment in his expression that makes her suspicious. He must see it, because he continues, "Don't you trust me?"

"No," Grace tells him. "Not when you've got that look about you."

"What look?"

Seeking to warm her cold feet on his lower legs, she says, "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. The look that tells me you've either done something you know I'll thoroughly disapprove of, or you know damn well that you're about to. I've seen it a hundred times."

His eyes narrow a thoughtful fraction. "Oh, well, if you're going to be like _that_…"

Grace regards him in pointed silence and in response his fist tightens around whatever it is he's holding. They stare at each other, neither giving ground. Symptomatic of their entire relationship, maybe, but not at all hostile. Not this time. The stand-off will last, she knows, until one of them thinks of a way to end it without losing face. This time it's her. Sniffing, she says, "Oh, for heaven's sake. If it will make you happy…"

Honour satisfied, Boyd says, "Close your eyes and hold out your hand."

She could argue. Probably, she _should_ argue. Grinding exhaustion is taking its toll on her, however, and sometimes it really is easier to just trust him. Making sure he registers her cool, sceptical look, Grace does as she's told. Almost immediately she feels him press something small and oddly-shaped into her palm. Opening her eyes, she surveys her unexpected gift with more than a little surprise. Cheap plastic. Bright, garish pink. One single moulded piece, the band and its flower-shaped adornment. No doubt at all as to its origins. Most _definitely_ from the kind of inexpensive Christmas cracker that children still adore despite the increasing materialism and commercialism of the festival.

Before she can comment on the unusual gift, Boyd retrieves the plastic ring from her palm and takes her hand in his. Making a show of studying her slim fingers, he says, "Last time I put a ring on a woman's finger, it led to all sorts of trouble."

"It's my right hand," Grace points out, not sure what else to say. Frightening, unspoken things swirl through her head, making dizzying, elusive patterns. Implications. Ramifications. Perhaps she's simply in danger of attempting to over-analyse what could simply be a unique demonstration of his singularly odd sense of humour.

"So it is." Superbly restrained. Without further hesitation Boyd slips the plastic ring onto her third finger with, "I'm probably safe enough, then."

"It's very…" she starts, searching for an appropriate description, "different. Thank you."

Flopping back against his pillows, he informs her, "Stella didn't just thieve CID's bloody mistletoe, she had it away with a box of their fancy biscuits and some of their crackers, too. DCI O'Connor was quite indignant about it when he rang down to complain."

Holding up her hand to examine the lurid pink monstrosity placed on her finger, Grace shakes her head. "I'm out of the office for _one_ day, Boyd, and you let them – "

"It's okay," he quickly assures her, not quite managing to hide a feral grin. "I made it quite clear that I did _not_ appreciate wild accusations being made against one of my officers."

Grace can picture it. Far too clearly. "Oh, God…"

Boyd's wicked grin broadens even further, and his dark eyes twinkle mischievously at her. "Happy Christmas, Grace."

Sometimes it's easier to let the whirlwind just take her along with it for the ride instead of trying to oppose it. This, she feels, is almost certainly one of those times. Leaning in to kiss him, she murmurs, "Hm, I'm definitely hoping it will be."

_\- the end -_


End file.
